


Indefinite

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Porn, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never hears it, himself.  He has to be lost to reach that place, Peter Pan scaling the clouds that live behind eyelids, and somehow that makes it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indefinite

Rodney remembers the first time he heard it. Breathy and whiny and even high he's used to -- those are good sounds, music that ranges through acceptable notes. But this isn't high so much as _falsetto_ , and it's not whiny so much as animalistic, an instinctive sounds that Rodney feels down in his heart strings, his gut, the kind of primal reaction that's created the sound in the first place.

John never hears it, himself. He has to be lost to reach that place, Peter Pan scaling the clouds that live behind eyelids, and somehow that makes it _better_.

There are no masks, when John's like this. No hidden walls so carefully tended, thorny and dangerous to push past. It's just _John_.

Rodney pushes at John's thighs to spread them wider. He isn't careful because he doesn't need to be: the not-so-rough-shove makes John mewl again, high and aching, even as he obeys and spreads his legs wider.

John's a study in shadows, like this. The way it crawls down the length of his spine, the widened triangle between his legs. The way it lays heaviest between his cheeks, shoved up in the air like a child's.

Rodney loves John's ass. He thinks it's only fair, since John has professed to sincere infatuation with Rodney's own admittedly fine posterior, but really, all it took was one good look. To finally get past the BDU's that fit baggy and loose -- intentionally, Rodney knows -- the boxers that John purposefully wears in bright, awkward colors, or the slick, smooth black briefs he reserves for combat. Flying. They're all lies, all liars, because beneath their concealing curtains lies an _ass_.

Not too big. Pretty rounded. Fantastic to slap repeatedly. Oh, and it happens to be the ass of a man who is the neediest, cock-hungriest bitch that Rodney's ever had the pleasure of meeting.

It works out pretty well, all told.

Thumb pressed firmly to the soft, stretched skin behind his balls, Rodney flicks them back and forth idly. John heaves into the pillow, lungs like a bellows as he tries to respond. He's covered in sweat, drenched in need and yearning like it's a new pair of pants for him to pull on and he never wants to take them off.

Rodney idly lets his nail run over translucently red skin, even as his fingers curl over John's sac and squeezes... not lightly. Not _hard_ , but not lightly.

This is the trick, of course. John can hang here indefinitely, cursing and breathless and continually mewling into whatever he buries his face in. He'll stay like this for _hours_ , long past what Rodney thinks is healthy, because there is no _thought_ here. The truest expression of John is one who lives for the moment, who doesn't anticipate or want because when he's here, there's nothing for him to crave. He has it. He _is_ it.

Rodney kisses the bottom of John's cheeks, sucking the faint traces of hair -- not enough to be annoying, fortunately, but there -- letting his tongue find patterns that no one else would. "Almost there?" he asks, faux concerned.

John whimpers in reply.

Batting at John's sac like a cat, again, Rodney licks his way over the swell of John's cheeks, the red that streaks over pale gold before nipping where it's hottest. John _jerks_ , hard and frantic, then returns to position. "You know what's really hot?" Rodney asks. It's rhetorical: _John_ is really hot, all of this is so hot it's incandescent, threatening to burn Rodney up from the inside. And it's handed over with the shiest of smiles.

"Rimming."

John hates to come without being touched. It's a sign of weakness, to him, of how much he craves what strong, strapping military men aren't supposed to want. Rodney thinks that's a load of bullshit, _loves_ making John come without a single touch, and rimming is the best way to do it. So he licks some more, circling John's ass until he finds his target and begins. Rodney has a big mouth and it's well honed after decades of use. His tongue is certifiable as a weapon and both of them know it.

Within in moments John is _hiccuping_ , trying to breath and make those frantic, high-pitched moans at the same time. Rodney stabs into him, over and over, stretching muscle that gives easily to him now, lax under this new form of command. John is hot inside, bitter and strong and all of him -- clean, always, Rodney's made certain of that -- squirming around like he's afraid to settle, to pull away from Rodney's mouth so he can frantically hump the bed.

Rodney solves that problem as he sucks sloppy and wet around the entrance, deliberately loud even as he shoves John's legs even wider, cupping sac and cock, rubbing it tauntingly. John is slippery with want held off for nearly too long, hot enough to scald.

"Idiot," Rodney says, fondly. Then he _bites_ , which is awkward as hell given his position, around as much sensitive skin as he can find just to hear John hitch and mewl at nearly inaudible ranges as his body starts to shake like a locomotive as he comes and comes and then comes some more.

He's flat on the bed and barely conscious when Rodney slides inside. "Fuck, yes," Rodney groans. John is never so loose as to be uncomfortable, and Rodney's not sure it'd be a problem even then. He's silk warmed to blood heat and Rodney doesn't need friction, just this perfect softness. "Fuck, John, c'mon, lemme -- "

"Mm," John slurs, rolling his hips back automatically even as he goes frog-like, knees and elbows bent to nearly touching. "Yeah, Rodney, I want. Inside."

Rodney might be humiliated at how few strokes it takes him before he's dizzy with lust, blind and gasping as he comes within John's body. But he's spent the last hour turning John into a puddle of sparking sexual heat, and really, there's nothing humiliating about that at all.

Afterwards, John hums and hums and burrs until his register falls back into that cracky, awkward tenor. He doesn't move so much as _roll_ underneath Rodney's weight, back and forth and back and forth like Rodney's body is being used to scratch an itch.

Which. Well.

"Idiot," Rodney says fondly, kissing John's sweaty neck. "If you'd waited -- "

"Didn' wanna wait. S'goooooooooood." John's voice is still a little high right now, which means if Rodney wants, he could start again. Rev John up like an engine, pistoning him towards orgasm after mind-blowing orgasm.

Or he could do it later. And sleep in between. And stay like this, inside of a warm, happy John who might wake up first and would probably tighten and stretch and work himself underneath Rodney until he's ready to fuck John as hard as he usually likes the second time...

"Good," John says, winding his fingers in with Rodney's. "Mm."

"It's a good thing I don't mind pre-verbal," Rodney says. Or tries to; the words don't come out so well, since he's really asleep and just doesn't know it yet.

John does wake him up the way he suspects: tense and relax and tense and relax and with that perfect little mewl Rodney dreams about when they're apart. It's pretty damned good.


End file.
